The roll came fast and mean, a sideways tilt that tried to make decisions for ankles and wheels and men. Inigo dropped his weight low, one hand on the Black Dragon's track pad, and let the world have him the way you let surf take you—loose, never limp. The S-60 skated, its spindly carriage legs screaming against glassed stone. The mortar baseplate hopped twice and dug in like a stubborn mule. The Mk 19 slewed, grinning, and waited to be asked again.
"Not a wave," Inigo said through gritted teeth as gravel tried to become ball bearings. "A roll. Fine."
The Lord used the roll like punctuation—palms out, fingers slightly curved, the sigil-ink along each phalanx brightening in sequence as he pushed. The ground obeyed because it remembered whose weight had been teaching it all day.
